


In A Heartbeat

by blanketed_in_stars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Birthday, Fluff, Happy Birthday Remus, Lie Low At Lupin's, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 01:16:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6217957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus sits up, molasses-slow with the weight of the morning. "What is it?"</p><p>"What is it?" Sirius repeats, apparently aghast. "Moony. My dear chap." He leans in close and he smells like sleep and strawberries. "Happy birthday."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In A Heartbeat

"Remus," a voice whispers, "wake up."

In the infinitesimal slice of time before the voice makes its way to his brain and the neurons start firing, this "Remus" person does not exist. There is only a collection of tired old bones and skin over their frame, stretched tight in some places and hanging loose in others. But then the words and the years catch up, and Remus cracks his eyes open. He sees, with the usual burst of incandescent joy, Sirius—Sirius, who is innocent—leaning over his shoulder. He arranges his mouth into something that he hopes is a smile. “'M awake," he mumbles. "Thought I told you I like to sleep in."

"I know," Sirius says. "I don't care."

Remus really does smile at that. It sounds so much like the young Sirius that he used to know that the image of him, wild-eyed and laughing, blooms in his mind. He sits up, molasses-slow with the weight of the morning. "What is it?"

"What is it?" Sirius repeats, apparently aghast. "Moony. My dear chap." He leans in close and he smells like sleep and strawberries. "Happy birthday."

A moment. Remus blinks and pins it down so it doesn't escape, that one second. He thinks, and counts quickly. "You're right," he says, surprised. _Happy birthday._ It's been a lifetime in fourteen years since he cared when he was born; mostly, he's just wished he hadn't been.

Sirius snorts. "Of course I'm right." His voice is still light, but carefully so, and Remus knows he's deliberately ignoring the fact that Remus forgot his own birthday. Still, there's a rough edge in the air, the kind that calls attention to itself. "Good," Sirius says, clearly attempting to smooth it over, "right. You're awake. You know what that means."

"Er," Remus says, "you're about to make me regret it?"

He receives a whack on the shoulder, and Sirius reaches for something on the floor on his side of the bed. The mattress dips. Then he's back with a white paper box. Reaching over, he places it in front of Remus, who eyes it with what he considers very reasonable suspicion.

"It's a _present,"_ Sirius tells him, the picture of wounded pride. "It won't hurt you."

Remus raises one eyebrow. "Where you're concerned, the two aren't mutually exclusive," he points out, but reaches out and lifts the lid.

The scent hits him instantly: _chocolate._ And beneath it, strawberries. Remus's mind short-circuits. Only after a few seconds does he actually register what he's seeing, which is, of course, a veritable trove of chocolate-covered strawberries. There must be an undetectable extension charm on the box, because there are far more than should physically fit.

When his breathing is back to normal, more or less, he turns to Sirius, who looks more excited than Remus has seen him since his return. "Good, eh?" he says, grinning. "Made 'em myself." He gets no response. In the space of a blink, his brow knits. His smile begins to fade. "What?" he says. "You've still got a chocolate fetish, haven't you?"

"I haven't got a chocolate fetish," Remus says automatically.

"Then what's wrong?" Sirius demands. "Moony, what is it?"

Remus fingers the lid of the box, his mind curiously quiet, all his thoughts scattered to the winds. In their place is something that comes from his chest, an immense and powerful something, a roaring something, a trembling something. He searches for the words to name it and comes up empty-handed.

“Are they moldy?” Sirius asks. He tries to grab the box away, but Remus latches on. “Come on,” Sirius says, “at least tell me what’s going on if you’re going to make that face.”

Is he making a face? Remus supposes so. He forces it away, whatever expression has resulted from the earthquake inside of him, and smiles at Sirius. _Chocolate-covered strawberries._ He feels his lips tremble. “You didn’t have to get me a present,” he says. It’s not what he means. He doesn’t know what he means.

Sirius’s frown deepens. “I know,” he says. “I wanted to.”

“That’s not—” Remus gestures futilely at the box and its beautiful contents. “I don’t—” The swelling feeling is seeping between his ribs now and filling him up with its tremendous golden brightness. “Sirius,” he says.

“Yeah?”

Remus is aware of the moments passing, each one longer than the last. “Nobody’s wanted to get me presents in fourteen years,” he says. It’s still not quite what he wants to say. He can hear the gruffness in his voice and clears his throat. “Nobody told me happy birthday.”

Sirius’s face melts a little and he wraps one arm around Remus, presses his lips to his shoulder. “Happy birthday,” he murmurs, and again, “happy birthday. Happy birthday. I’ll say it a thousand times.”

Remus laughs. It feels clean. “I love you,” he says. That’s even closer to what he means.

“I love you, too.” The lips find his neck, his chin, his cheek. “Happy birthday.”

“You don’t have to,” Remus tells him again.

“I know.”

“You want to, though.” He turns his head and looks at Sirius—Sirius, who is innocent, Sirius, who’s come home, Sirius, who _is_ home—and in one blinding moment he knows the right words. “Thank you.” It seals up the fissures inside him.

“Love you,” Sirius replies. “Happy birthday.”

“You said that already.”

Sirius rests his chin on Remus’s shoulder. “And are you?”

“What?”

“Happy?”

There’s no need to think about it. “Yeah. I am.” Remus knows in a heartbeat, as sure as the motion of the planets and the sweep of the tide. It’s something that’s going to be there in the moment before he wakes up, in the instant before he becomes himself—this joy, it’s already there, inexplicably and inextricably bound into his heart and lungs and even his tired old bones. And they don’t feel so tired now.


End file.
